Keith passed the Cowley farm and noticed Billy Marlon's blue pickup truck near the house. He continued on a mile up the road, then made a U-turn and came back.

The mounted posse was in the far distance now, and Keith swung the police car into the driveway of the farmhouse, then veered off, avoiding the pickup truck, and headed straight for an old cowshed. He hit the double doors, and they burst inward. He slammed on the brakes, but not in time to avoid hitting a pile of milk cans, which toppled over with a deafening crash.

Ward shouted something from the trunk.

Keith shut off the ignition, then took off Ward's hat and shirt and strapped on Ward's gun belt. He gathered his M-16 rifle and the rack-mounted police shotgun, then went around to the trunk and rapped on it. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Let me out."

"Later." Keith walked out of the cowshed and met Billy Marlon coming toward him.

Marlon looked at the police car in the shed, then at Keith and said, "Jesus Christ."

"Not even close. Are you alone?"

"Yeah."

"Let's get in the house." He gave Marlon the shotgun to carry.

Billy Marlon was understandably agitated and confused, but he followed Keith into the farmhouse. Marlon said, "Hey, they're lookin' for you."

"Who was here?"

"That bastard Krug. Asked me if I seen you, and I told him I didn't even know who the fuck you were."

"He buy it?"

"Sort of. He reminded me that you helped me out of a scrape with the law — hey, thanks for the money. I found it. I thought you was gone."

"I came back. You sober?"

"Sure. I'm broke, I'm sober." Billy looked at Keith. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I got drunk and fell down the stairs."

"No shit? Hey, something else, there was a guy here yesterday, can't remember his name, says he was a friend of yours and that the Porters told him you might be here..."

"Charlie?"

"Yeah... kinda all spiffed-up, light hair, wiseass..."

"Charlie."

"Yeah. Lookin' for you. I showed him that note you left me and told him you was gone, but he said you might be around. What the hell's goin' on? What's all the hardware for?"

"I don't have a lot of time, Billy. I need your help."

"Anything you want, you got it, if I got it to give."

"Good. I need your pickup truck and a pair of boots. Do you have camouflage fatigues?"

"Sure do."

"Binoculars, compass?"

"You got it. You goin' huntin'?"

"Yup. Got to get moving."

"Come on upstairs."

They went up the stairs of the tidy farmhouse and into a small bedroom.

Billy pulled his hunting gear out of a closet, and Keith took off his suit pants and shoes, saying to Marlon, "Burn these."

"Burn?.."

"Burn everything I leave here."

Keith tried on the tiger fatigue pants, which were a little snug and less than clean, but for a man who hadn't bathed since Sunday morning, it was okay. The boots fit fine, and so did the camouflage shirt. Billy gave him a bright orange vest for visibility, which Keith took but had no intention of using.

Billy watched him getting dressed and said, "I'll go with you."

"Thanks, but I want to hunt alone."

"What're you huntin' for?"

"Varmint." Keith tied the boots and stood. He thought about Baxter's three dogs. At the house on Williams Street, there had been a kennel, and Keith had seen no signs of dogs living inside the house. He assumed that if the dogs were outdoor animals on Williams Street, they would be outdoors all night at the lodge. He asked Billy, "You do any longbow or crossbow hunting?"

"Nope. I like the rifle. How about you?"

"Same." Despite all his exotic training, he'd never been introduced to bows and arrows, blowguns, slings, spears, or boomerangs. The only silent way of killing he'd been taught was by knife and garrote, which wouldn't work on a dog, and he didn't have a silencer for his M-16, and Billy didn't have a crossbow. But he'd worry about that later.

Billy said, "Varmint's a real hard shot with a longbow. Seen it done with a crossbow."

"Right. Okay, thanks. I'll get the truck back to you tomorrow or the next day."

"Hey, Keith, I may be a fucked-up juicehead, but I'm sober now."

Keith looked at Billy Marlon, and they made eye contact. Keith said, "The less you know, the better." Keith moved to the door, but Marlon held his arm.

Marlon said, "I remember some of that night at John's Place and in the park and you drivin' me home."

"I have to go, Billy."

"He did fuck my wife... my second wife. I loved her... and she loved me, and we was doin' okay, but that bastard got between us, and after what happened, we tried to get it back together again... you know? But I couldn't deal with what happened and I started to drink, and I got like real mean with her. She left, but... she said she still loved me, but she'd done somethin' wrong and she could understand why I couldn't forgive her." Billy suddenly spun around and kicked the closet door, splintering the plywood panel. "Ah, shit!"

Keith took a deep breath and said, "It's okay." It was amazing, he thought, how much wreckage Cliff Baxter had left behind as he indulged himself in his carnal gratifications and moral corruption. Keith asked Billy, "What was her name?"

His back still to Keith, Billy replied, "Beth."

"Where is Beth now?"

He shrugged. "I don't know... Columbus, I think." Billy turned around and looked at Keith. "I know where you're goin'. I'm goin' with you. I have to go with you."

"No. I don't need help."

"Not for you. For me. Please."

"It's dangerous."

"Hey, I'm dead already. I won't even notice the difference."

Keith looked at Billy Marlon and nodded.

Keith went into the cowshed, and, with an ax that Marlon had given him, he sliced a few air vents in the trunk lid of the police car. He said to Ward through the slits, "Be thankful it's a Fairlane and not an Escort."

"Fuck you, Landry."

Keith drove the police car out of the shed and headed back on Route 8 the way he'd come. He didn't want to leave any evidence of an association between himself and Billy Marlon and Marlon's pickup truck.

Keith swung off the road onto the shoulder, then cut the car hard right over a drainage culvert and onto a tractor path between two fields of corn. Fifty yards into the corn, hidden from the road, he stopped and shut off the ignition.

He got out of the car and said to Ward, "I'll call from Daytona and tell them where you are. It'll be a while, so relax. Think about early retirement."

"Hey! Wait! Where am I?"

"In the trunk."

Keith jogged back to the road and met Billy Marlon, who was waiting for him in the pickup truck.

Billy drove the pickup, a ten-year-old blue Ford Ranger, and Keith sat in the passenger seat, a dirty bush hat pulled low on his head.

In the storage space behind the seat was the hunting gear, canvas ponchos for the Michigan cold, his M-16 rifle and scope, the Spencerville police shotgun, Officer Ward's service revolver, and Billy Marlon's hunting rifle, an Army surplus M-14 with a four-power scope. He'd also taken his briefcase, which held his passport, important papers, some money, and other odds and ends. It occurred to him that this was about all he owned in the world, which was actually not much more or less than he'd owned when he left Spencerville for the Army half a lifetime ago.

As they drove, Keith said to Billy, "Baxter has three hunting dogs with him."

"Shit."

"Think about it."

"I will." Billy asked, "Where we going?"

"Michigan. Northern part."

"Yeah? I do most of my hunting up that way. There's some good maps in the glove compartment."

Keith found the maps and located Grey Lake at the northern end of the peninsula. It was nearly one P.M., and they should be in Atlanta about seven and, with luck, be able to find Baxter's lodge at Grey Lake within an hour.